Ella's War: A Moving and Emotional Historical Drama

By Sarah Bourne

A World War II nurse finds herself in a hospital bed with no memory of how she got there in this dramatic historical novel by the author of The Train.

1947. Ella Elkington wakes up in hospital with minor physical injuries but no memory. She cannot even remember her own name.

The doctor treating her tells her that she had a car accident and has been identified by a letter found in a handbag. Asking to see the letter, hoping to find out about herself, she learns the letter is now missing.

When the hospital tracks down her brother, he visits her, and Ella has glimmers of childhood memories. 

After she is released from hospital, with the help of diaries and letters, and her long-time friend Sheila, Ella begins to piece together her past. She learns she was a nurse during the war, who was sent to work in a mobile hospital in France after the D-Day landings. But, haunted by nightmares, Ella struggles to understand how she ended up in the accident—as well as what happened to that letter and the man in her dreams.

In order to understand who she is, Ella must face a terrible truth in order to make peace with the past and find a way to live again . . .

Ella’s War is a captivating historical drama that will appeal to fans of authors like Lucinda Riley and Victoria Hislop.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jun 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781504069588

Sarah Bourne

Sarah Bourne is the author of several novels, including The Train. The winner of the 2017 Hunter Writer’s Centre prize for her short story "The Sounds of You," she also works as a counsellor and teaches yoga. She loves skiing, swimming, long dinners with friends, and walking her dogs. Born and raised in London, she has lived in the US and Japan and currently lives with her family in Sydney, Australia.

Book preview

1

The woman in the bed put her hand to her temple. Her right arm was in a cast from palm to elbow, her head swathed in bandages and there was a needle in the back of her left hand attached to tubing that snaked up to a drip stand. Weak sunlight shone through the large window, and she shielded her eyes as she turned to the man standing at her bedside.

‘Elkington? What kind of a name is that?’

‘A surname. Yours, actually.’

‘Mine?’

‘Yes. Eleanora Elkington of Bamford House, Lower Worthy, according to a letter we found in your handbag.’

She frowned and looked at the man for an explanation.

‘Motor accident. You were rather knocked about, I’m afraid. You were unconscious for several days and then became quite agitated, so we’ve been keeping you sedated for the last week to keep you calm and allow your injuries to heal.’

‘So I’ve been here over two weeks?’

‘Yes.’

The woman, who was attempting to reconcile herself with the name Eleanora Elkington, turned to the view out the window. Snow covered the lawn. A bird was perching on the windowsill, its feathers puffed up against the cold.

‘And you are?’ she asked, turning back to the stranger by her bed. She put a hand to her throat; it was dry and sore.

‘I’m Dr Myers. You’re in my private hospital. And your throat is probably a little uncomfortable because we only took your feeding tube out this morning. Do you have any memory of what happened?’

‘None at all.’

‘And you don’t recognise your name or address. Do you know what year it is? Or the month?’

She looked out the window again. ‘December?’ she guessed.

‘It’s February actually. 1947.’

The woman didn’t feel shocked. She didn’t feel much at all, as if the blanket of snow had stretched inside and lay between her and any feelings she might be experiencing. She looked around the large, bright room with its serviceable dark wooden furniture as if she might find a clue there as to her identity. There was a painting on the wall but otherwise nothing personal, not even a bunch of flowers in a vase.

‘Tell me a little bit about yourself,’ said the doctor, smiling down at her.

She opened her mouth to respond, but there was nothing there. She had no idea who she was, what she did, how she lived.

‘I don’t remember anything – nothing at all.’ Fear hit her in the chest; she felt as if she’d collapsed in on herself. Then her heart started thudding and she couldn’t catch her breath. She tugged at her nightgown trying to loosen it.

‘Now, now, don’t be alarmed,’ said Dr Myers. ‘You’ve been unconscious for a while so it’ll take a bit of time for everything to return to normal.’ He squeezed her hand reassuringly.

There was a tap on the door and the squealing of rubber on polished linoleum as the door opened and a stout woman in a light-blue uniform and starched cap pushed a trolley into the room.

‘Ah, Matron, our patient has awoken. Please give her some soluble aspirin in warm water to soothe her throat and see that a light lunch is ordered for her. And I’d like you to give her a small injection of Quinalbarbitone to calm her. She’s a little distressed. I’ll write it up.’

Dr Myers turned back to the woman. ‘I’ll leave you in the very capable hands of Matron for now, but I’ll look in later to see how you feel. Try to rest in the meantime, you’ve been through quite an ordeal.’

She wanted to ask what, exactly, the ordeal was, apart from being knocked out for days on end but the doctor swept out of the room and was gone.

‘Now then, my dear, how are you feeling?’ Without waiting for a response, she went on, ‘I just need to take your temperature.’

Matron stuck a thermometer in her mouth, put a cuff round her upper arm and took her blood pressure and felt her pulse. She wrote something on the chart at the end of the bed and then looked up.

‘Well that’s all fine. Now I’ll go and find you something to eat and draw up that medicine.’

When Matron had gone, the woman chewed a thumbnail, swallowing the scream that rose in her throat, desperately searching her mind for something, any memory at all, however small, however insignificant, that might let her know that she hadn’t completely lost her mind.

By the time Matron came back a few minutes later, the woman was forcing herself to take long, slow, deep breaths to quell the panic, but she was bunching the sheets into a tight ball.

‘Now, dear, lie back and keep taking those nice deep breaths. I’m going to give you an injection and you’ll feel calm.’

The woman closed her eyes and felt a prick in her upper arm.

‘All done. Are you comfortable?’ Again without waiting for a response, Matron plumped the pillows, smoothed out the sheets and tucked the blanket in more firmly, pinning the woman to the bed. She busied herself tidying the bedside locker, straightening the curtain at the window. When her patient’s breath settled, she left.

After Matron had gone, the woman lay trying to probe into the corners of her mind for a memory of the accident, but there was none. No memory of an accident, or of anything else. It was as if she had just been born, all life ahead of her, and yet, there were years behind her. How many, she wondered?

My name is Eleanora Elkington she repeated to herself, and sighed. What a mouthful.

She felt her face, carefully touching her nose, her cheeks, her lips. There were no wrinkles, the skin was taut over a decent bone structure. She sighed and silently thanked Matron for the lovely injection. Her eyes grew heavy, and she allowed them to close.

Moments, hours, or maybe even days later, she was awoken by a nurse pulling a table across her bed and setting a tray down.

‘Matron said you should eat, ma’am. So here you are – some poached fish and vegetables. Do you need some help to sit up?’

Eleanora was suddenly ravenous, struggling to get herself upright enough to attack the meal. The nurse helped her with a hand under her armpit, and stacked two more pillows behind her.

‘Don’t eat too quickly now, your stomach won’t be used to feeling full.’

But Eleanora was shovelling the food in in great mouthfuls, ignoring her sore throat, barely chewing before cramming the next forkful in.

The flavours and textures were heavenly and she wondered if she’d always enjoyed food, or had she, in the past, taken it for granted, eaten purely because one must, rather than savouring each mouthful. Or had she often gone hungry, eaten whatever she could find? She doubted that. Dr Myers had told her that this was a private hospital, so she must have money, or a family who could pay.

She stopped eating at that thought. Did she have a family?

‘How old am I?’ she asked the nurse, who reddened at the question.

‘I’m sure I don’t know, ma’am,’ she said.

‘Approximately – I promise I won’t be angry if you tell me I’m old.’

The nurse swallowed. ‘About thirty I should say, ma’am.’

Eleanora looked at her left hand holding the fork. A wedding ring sat loosely on her fourth finger.

‘I’m married,’ she said.

The nurse didn’t respond.

‘Has my husband been in?’

‘No, ma’am. Dr Myers has allowed no visitors at all.’

‘But my husband knows I’m here? He has enquired after me?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that, ma’am. You’ll have to ask Matron.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Rosie, ma’am. I mean, Nurse Fletcher.’

‘Rosie’s a pretty name. Do you mind if that’s what I call you? Nurse seems so formal.’

‘That’s fine, ma’am – although perhaps you could call me Nurse in front of Matron or Dr Myers.’

‘Of course. Well, Rosie, thank you for lunch. Could you ask Matron to pop in when she has a moment?’

‘Certainly, ma’am.’ She rolled the table back into the corner and took the tray away.

Alone once more, Eleanora tried again to remember anything or anyone from her life, curling her good hand into a fist and drawing her forehead beneath its bandages into a frown of concentration. Did she have children? How awful not to remember them if she did. A tear slid down her cheek.

As the shadows of the trees lengthened on the snow, she noticed a bell pull beside the bedside cabinet. Rolling over to reach it, she felt a stabbing pain in her hip and another in her neck. She wondered what other injuries she’d suffered in the accident, and slowly lifted the blankets to look at her body in its plain white hospital gown. Her right leg was bandaged, her left bruised and swollen. She tried wiggling her toes, and was relieved when they moved. Somewhere deep inside she knew that that was a good sign and she smiled.

‘How are we feeling now?’ asked Matron as she bustled in.

‘I have rather a headache, and my neck hurts when I move my head. Otherwise I’m fine.’

‘We’ll get you something for your headache, and I’ll speak to Dr Myers about a neck brace.’

Eleanora put her hand to her neck, imagining it held in a rigid brace. ‘Oh, really it’s not too bad. I’ll be fine. When can I go home?’

‘Dr Myers will decide that, dear, but I’d say you’ll be here a while.’

Eleanora bit the inside of her cheek. She hated having to ask all the questions that pressed on her, but she had to know.

‘Do you know if I have children?’

Matron looked at her and her face softened. ‘It’s an awful thing, isn’t it, not knowing these things? Well, I can tell you that you do not have children.’

Eleanora sighed in relief. One less thing to have to worry about.

‘Has my husband been in – does he know what happened?’

The Matron paused with her hand on the blanket she’d been smoothing.

‘What is it, what’s the matter?’

‘I think you need to have a talk with Dr Myers,’ said Matron, busying herself with the pillows.

Eleanora gasped. ‘Was my husband injured in the accident?’

‘No, you were alone in the vehicle as I understand it.’

‘Then what? Please tell me.’ She tried to pull herself up but she felt so weak.

‘Now, dear, don’t go getting yourself in a bother. I’m sure the doctor will tell you everything you need to know when the time is right. Try not to think of it now. Get some rest, it’s the best thing for you.’

Eleanora wanted to scream in frustration. And then she remembered something. ‘The letter in my handbag – where is it? Who was it addressed to?’

‘I’m afraid I know nothing of that. Rest now.’ Matron swept out of the room and the door swung shut behind her.

She closed her eyes and tried to conjure an image, but no memory appeared of a wedding, or of a husband. She needed the letter. If only they would give it to her, she’d know a little more about herself. Eleanora worried that she would spend the rest of her life knowing nothing about her past. Could one be a complete person with no memory of what had gone before?

And had she imagined it, or had Matron blanched rather when she asked about the letter, as if she knew more than she was letting on?

Her head throbbed.

‘It’s not at all uncommon to have a bit of memory loss after a head injury, and you received quite a bump.’

Eleanora looked at the doctor in his crisp white coat and neatly trimmed moustache and wondered at his choice of words. A bit of memory loss. She could remember nothing, not even her name and address, the name of her husband, her parents. She had no idea if she had friends, what sort of life she led. She felt panic rise again, her breath caught in her chest.

‘Now, now, Mrs Elkington, no need for alarm. The memory usually sorts itself out in time. A few days and it’ll be right as rain. When your legs are better we’ll get you up and sitting in a chair. In a couple of months’ time you’ll be quite back to yourself.’

Eleanora grasped his hand and held it tight. ‘So this is temporary. You’ve seen it before?’

‘Oh yes, several times, and in all cases the memory has returned fully.’

‘Oh, thank God.’ Eleanora let go of his hand and relaxed back against her pillows. ‘And what about my husband, have you been in touch with him?’

Dr Myers stiffened. ‘All in good time, my dear. No use getting ahead of yourself.’

‘I don’t think it’s getting ahead of myself to ask about my husband. He must be terribly worried. I’d like to see him.’

‘Mrs Elkington, I understand your concern, but I’m the doctor here, and you must trust that I know what’s best for my patients. You just let me do my job. Now, I need to see how those legs of yours are healing. It’s quite extraordinary really, that apart from your head injury nothing was broken except your wrist. It’s fortunate that you were thrown from the vehicle. I’m afraid the car was damaged beyond repair.’

Eleanora clenched her jaw. This really was too much. What was he keeping from her with all this chatter, and why? Suddenly she knew. The blood drained from her face and she felt as cold as the snow outside.

‘He’s dead, isn’t he – that’s why you won’t tell me anything.’

Dr Myers tensed again. It told her all she needed to know.

‘How did it happen?’

‘I really don’t want you upsetting yourself.’

‘I have a right to know. How would you like it if you woke up remembering nothing and the person who could tell you a few details of your life wouldn’t?’ She was aware that her voice sounded on the edge of hysteria.

The doctor looked at her with pursed lips, as if assessing her mental competence. ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t usually tell patients with amnesia anything about their past. I prefer that they remember in their own good time because only in that way each recovered memory can be integrated in the right order, but I’m going to break my own rule in this instance.’ He took a deep breath and assumed a sad expression. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been advised that your husband died in the war.’

‘The war?’ She turned her head away and looked at the picture on the wall – a cottage in a colourful garden. She’d lost a husband she couldn’t remember in a war she had no memory of. She knew she should be shocked or sad, but there was that feeling again of being somehow shut off from her emotions, as if it was someone else’s life they were talking about.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘Are you all right? I can give you something if you need it, to help with the shock.’

‘No need. I’m fine.’ She looked back at the doctor. ‘Do you know what happened – the accident, I mean?’ She gestured at herself lying in the bed.

Dr Myers looked relieved that they weren’t going to have to talk about her husband anymore. ‘Only what the boy who found you told me — that you were lying about ten feet from the car which was in a ditch by the Hambleford Road. He made sure you were breathing and then cycled over to tell me. I sent an ambulance and you were brought here. That was two weeks ago.’

Eleanora thought about what he’d said, willing herself to remember the accident, or driving. Where was she going?

‘And the letter?’ It seemed terribly important that she have the letter. It might be the key to – to what? To the fact that she had a friend or family member she could write to, that she might ask them something about herself?

‘Oh, I’m afraid I know nothing of what happened to that. You’ll have to ask Matron.’

‘She said she didn’t know about it.’

‘Well, I’ll look into it. Now, let’s have a look at these legs.’

Dr Myers pulled the blankets back and unwrapped the bandages. He positioned himself in such a way that Eleanora could see nothing while he touched her legs in various places, asking if she could feel anything.

‘Yes, I can feel you poking and prodding.’

‘That’s very good, no nerve damage.’

‘Am I scarred?’

‘There were some deep cuts that I had to stitch, but I think you’ll be happy with my handiwork. Best not to look yet, though, it’ll only upset you at the moment. The wounds will heal, just remember that.’ He bandaged her leg again and pulled the blankets up. ‘Now, let’s see what you remember. Who is the prime minister?’

Ella screwed up her eyes as she tried to think.

‘No idea.’

‘Not to worry.’

‘Well, who is it?’

‘Clement Atlee, Labour.’

Eleanora shook her head. The name meant nothing to her.

‘How about your childhood? What can you recall of that?’ he asked.

A picture popped into her head of a blond boy and a dark-haired girl on a beach, digging a hole in the sand.

‘Being beside the sea,’ she said and smiled. A memory! Or was it? It could have been any two children, but she had a vague sense that it was herself and a brother. The image vanished.

‘Very good,’ said Dr Myers. ‘What was the weather like?’

‘The sun was shining, but there were clouds closing in.’

She surprised herself. Had she really noticed that or had she remembered the day?

‘Did it stay sunny?’

‘No, it poured later and we had to pack up quickly and run back to the house.’ She felt triumphant. It was a memory. She could almost feel the rain on her face and the clamminess of her cotton blouse sticking to her skin.

‘How old were you?’

‘About six, I think.’

‘Very good. You see, you’re remembering things already. But that’s enough for now, we don’t want to tire you out, do we? Rest now, that’s what you need most. I’ll see you in the morning.’

He was gone before she had a chance to ask him anything else. She’d have to make sure that she had a list of questions ready to ask next time she saw him.

Alone, Eleanora tried to conjure the beach scene again, but it had gone and left nothing in its place.

2

Two days after she had woken up in Dr Myers’ hospital, Matron announced that Eleanora was to have a visitor.

‘Who?’ she asked, excited at the idea of talking to someone who knew her, who could tell her something of her past, but nervous at the same time about what she might learn. Would she like the person she was when eventually she remembered herself? Had she had friends who valued her, or acquaintances who merely put up with her?

‘Your brother. He’s been very worried about you, telephoning every day to enquire after you.’

‘I don’t suppose you know what his name is, do you?’

‘Andrew. Andrew Whittington.’

‘Like Dick,’ said Eleanora.

Matron smiled at her. ‘That’s right.’

Eleanora thought for a moment. ‘I remember having the story read to me.’ She closed her eyes, the better to remember. ‘A man’s voice. My father, perhaps?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know, but I suspect so. There, another memory. It’s all coming back just like Dr Myers said it would.’

There was a knock at the door.

Eleanora put her hand to her head to smooth her hair, and felt the bulk of the bandages instead. She bit her lips and pinched her cheeks to bring a little colour to her face.

Dr Myers came in followed by a tall man with his hat in one hand and a bunch of flowers in the other. His hair was receding which made his thin face too long to be handsome, but when he smiled his blue eyes twinkled behind dark-rimmed spectacles, and the overall impression was of kindness and good humour.

He put the hat and flowers down and approached the bed and held out his hands.

‘Darling, it’s so good to see you. You gave us quite a fright, you know.’

Eleanora took one of his hands in her good one and smiled up at him. She so desperately wanted to remember him, but there was nothing. The shocking thought occurred to her that these people may not be who they said they were at all. She removed her hand from his abruptly as her heart gave a flip. She looked from one to the other feeling scared and vulnerable. What if she was someone rich or famous, and these people were taking advantage of her weak state to dupe her? They could do anything to her. She bit the inside of her lip and tried to think clearly. She was powerless; all she could do was play along until her memory returned, and in the meantime, watch carefully and hope that her suspicions were unfounded.

‘It’s lovely to see you too, Andrew, thank you for coming.’

The smile faded from his face.

‘You don’t actually remember me, do you? Dr Myers warned me that you mightn’t, but I didn’t believe him.’ He fumbled in his breast pocket.

‘Here,’ he said, and showed her a photograph. ‘I thought I’d bring this in. It usually sits on your sideboard. It’s us when we were young, on the beach at Torquay one summer. We used to have a cottage there and went several times a year.’

Eleanora looked at the picture and gasped. It was similar to the image she’d had when Dr Myers had asked if she had any memory of her family — a blond boy and dark-haired girl on the beach, laughing at the camera, beside a large hole in the sand.

‘It’s you and me. I was seven and you were five. Father had bought an Argus C3 and spent the whole holiday taking photographs of us. I think he rather fancied himself as a photographer, but most of them were blurred. This was the best. Mother refused to be in any of them. Do you remember – she said that cameras were the Devil’s invention.’ He laughed.

Eleanora scrutinised the picture; the boy in the photograph had similar eyes to this man, and although the young face was rounder and the child had more hair, she could, perhaps, believe that the boy in the picture had grown into the man before her.

‘Do you remember what happened after the picture was taken?’ she asked.

Andrew laughed. ‘It started bucketing down – we got drenched as we ran back to the house. Mother ran a hot bath for us so we didn’t catch a chill.’

Eleanora looked at him as he spoke. He remembered the rain, just as she had. But Dr Myers could have told him about her memory of the day. They could still be trying to fool her about who they were. And Andrew seemed pleased, almost too pleased, as if he knew he had passed the test. She looked away, not knowing what to make of it all. Tears of frustration and fear welled up, but she closed her eyes and took a deep breath and stopped them from falling.

‘My dear girl, it’ll be all right – you’ll be all right,’ said Andrew hastily. ‘I’m sure you’ll remember in time.’

She realised that the effort of trying to remember was going to be enormous. She felt exhausted at the very thought.

Dr Myers, who hadn’t left the room, cleared his throat.

‘I’m afraid that’s probably enough for now, Mr Whittington. Why don’t you join me for lunch and you can have another short visit this afternoon, but your sister has been through a lot and we don’t want to tire her out, do we?’

‘Of course not,’ said Andrew. He took Eleanora’s hand and squeezed it in a reassuring way before following Dr Myers out of the room.

Eleanora closed her eyes to stop the tears that threatened again. There hadn’t been a glimmer of recognition when he walked in. He could have been any man off the street. How could she not know her own brother? And yet, she found herself wanting to believe he was who he said he was. She wondered if there was some deep, subconscious need to be connected to other people, to trust another person totally.

When Matron brought a vase for the flowers and some lunch, Eleanor couldn’t eat. Her stomach was tying itself up in knots. She closed her eyes and tried to recall Andrew and her parents, but ended up with a headache and tightness in her jaw from clenching it so tight as she tried to pierce the thick fog that shrouded her memories.

Andrew sat with her for half an hour that afternoon.

‘What did you and Dr Myers talk about?’ she asked. He looked hurt, and Eleanora knew that there was distrust in her voice.

‘I know this must be terribly hard for you, to wake up and not know anything. I wish I could prove to you that I am who I say I am, and that you’re safe here, but I don’t know how. All I can hope is that you soon remember everything and we can get back to normal. Dr Myers is certain you will remember eventually but that it’s important the memories come back in their own time.’ He smiled. ‘The good news is he also said that you will not have forgotten how to do things, only what you’ve done, and that he believes that once you get home, your memory will return quite quickly. And since the doctor seems dead set against anyone telling you about yourself, I thought I’d tell you a bit about me, if you’re at all interested?’

Eleanora didn’t know how to respond. If this man wasn’t her brother and was playing some trick on her, wouldn’t he try harder to convince her of who he was? But if he was her brother, surely he must have some way of proving it to her? She shook her head in frustration. All she could do was go along with it all. ‘Of course, I’d love to know all about you,’ she said.

After he’d gone, Eleanora thought about the stranger who said he was her brother. She liked him. He was the sort of person she would have warmed to even if they weren’t related — kind, funny, intelligent, caring. He was married to a woman he’d met in an air-raid shelter in the Blitz, which he’d had to explain was the bombing of London in 1940, a few months after the war started. They had bonded over a thermos of tea and the fact that they were reading the same book: Appointment with Death by Agatha Christie. He had looked at her in a curious way as he said the name of the book, and she suspected he knew that she, too, had read it at some stage, so she’d smiled. Encouraged, he’d continued his story. Andrew had been unable to join up because of his poor eyesight, but was a warden in the ARP, and had stayed in London throughout the war, fighting fires and helping the injured in the evenings after a long day working in a bank. He and Sophie, his wife, had two children, Laura, five, and Billie, three.

Eleanora lay back against her pillows. She was relieved to discover that although she could remember nothing before the accident, at least she could retain things she learned after it.

He came to see her again the following day, and handed her a bag.

‘I’m staying at your house – I hope you don’t mind – so thought I’d bring you your own night clothes instead of that awful hospital gown,’ he said.

Eleanora looked at the yellow cotton nightdress, the hairbrush and comb, and suspected by the way he quickly put another bag into her locker that it held underwear that he was too embarrassed to hand over.

‘Thank you, how thoughtful.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t stay long – Dr Myers is adamant that I shouldn’t tire you. How are you feeling today?’

‘I’m fine. Tell me just the tiniest bit about our family, would you?’

‘Well, I don’t suppose that can hurt.’ He looked at her. ‘We had a happy childhood in a house in Richmond. Our father was a barrister and worked long hours but Mother was always at home. We had a holiday home in Torquay and loved going down there.’ He stopped.

‘Go on, please.’

Andrew looked down at his hands. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that our mother died when we were quite young. Father couldn’t bear to visit the house in Torquay without her so he sold it and bought the house that is now yours. We had ponies there and it was closer to London, which meant that Father could get there more easily at weekends.’

Eleanora sighed. None of it sounded familiar.

‘We were brought up by German nannies – Father was from there originally.’

Eleanora wished she could remember it. The thought of escaping the city for riding weekends must have been so appealing to a child.

‘Mother was a beautiful woman. You get your looks from her.’

Eleanora laughed. The glimpse she’d had of herself in a mirror after begging Rosie Fletcher for one showed a gaunt face and dark circles under her eyes. A face she didn’t recognise.

‘She was so good at entertaining – there were always dinners, and theatre outings. Not for us, of course. For Father’s friends mainly. She took us on picnics and invented games or set treasure hunts for us.’

Eleanora felt the tears well up at that, and Andrew apologised.

‘I’m so sorry, dear girl. Dr Myers told me not to say too much, to let you remember in your own time. I won’t say anything more. It’s difficult to share my childhood memories without you being in them.’

‘Please, don’t stop. I want to know.’

But Andrew smiled and said he had to go.

After he’d gone Eleanora lay staring out the window. She was